


As We Lie Here Together

by daisylore



Series: In a Borrowed Bedroom [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Communication, Cooking, Dating, Food, Friends to Lovers, Ice Skating, Kissing, M/M, Painting, Sharing a Bed, talking about sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisylore/pseuds/daisylore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7798234"><em>Another Day, Another Night.</em></a> A story in which Eames and Arthur actually talk to each other, for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not terribly happy with the writing at the end of this chapter, but I've just decided to publish it, or else I'll never write anything else.

“Oh my god, I, Arthur,” Eames nearly shouts as he looks down to where they’re all tangled up and takes stock of the situation. “I don’t know what I was doing, I was asleep, I couldn’t control myself, I’m sorry – ”

Arthur sees Eames’s wide eyes and panicked expression. He can feel his hardness against his hip. There are two ways out of this situation. There’s awkwardness for the rest of their day and the rest of this job and possibly the rest of their relationship, working and personal. Or, there’s an opening that will maybe, just maybe, get Arthur what he wants.

And maybe it’s in completely the wrong order and not at all like Arthur planned it, but he has to decide now if he’s in or out; if he pulls away, it’s as good as telling Eames he doesn’t want him. But he does, so Arthur leans forward and kisses him, long and slow and deep. Eames kisses him back.

Arthur can feel the heat between them, so he reaches down and wraps one hand around Eames’s cock. Eames stutters, emitting an unintelligible noise. Arthur can’t tell if it’s of apprehension or pleasure. He stills his hand.

“Eames, is this okay with you?” He asks softly.

“Uh,” Eames starts. Arthur’s eyes widen in horror. He should really trust his instincts. He thought this through before, many times. He knows that he shouldn’t go too quickly with Eames. He pulls his hand away, cheeks burning in shame.

“Arthur, I really want to,” he adds, “but I guess this just was never what I pictured. I don’t usually just jump into sex, to be honest.”

Eames isn’t even making eye contact with him anymore, as if he thinks he has just said something ridiculous. He seems to be focusing hard on the lamp in the far corner of the room. Arthur places two fingers underneath Eames’s chin and tips his head up so he’s face to face with him.

“I understand, Eames. There’s nothing wrong with going slowly – I mean, if you want us to go anywhere with this at all – ”

“Yeah, I do,” Eames says, a smile spreading across his face.

“Me too. Okay. Just no early morning gropes at this point, then,” answers Arthur.

“Do you think we could just kiss for a while, though?” Eames looks up at him with puppy-dog eyes, as if Arthur would _ever_ going to say no to that request.

++

A little while doesn’t last terribly long, unfortunately, as fairly soon, Arthur moves, almost instinctively, to flip himself on top of Eames.

“Um,” Eames says, pulling away to stare up at Arthur blankly while biting his lower lip.

“Oops,” Arthur mutters, rolling off back onto his half of the bed again. “Sorry. Instinct, I guess.”

“That’s okay,” Eames says.

The second time it happens, Eames pauses. “Out of curiosity, when’s the last time you kissed someone without it leading to sex? Because, as flattering as this is, you’re making it awfully difficult not to lose control.”

“I don’t know. Never,” Arthur huffs out, a bit breathless from kissing.

“Never?” Eames asks incredulously. “What about when you were a teenager?”

“It’s possible that I had my first kiss and my first fuck on the same night,” Arthur admits, steadying his voice into something resembling insouciance but not quite replicating it.

Eames rolls over onto his stomach. “Really?”

“Yeah. I was twenty-two and I’d never even been kissed. I felt like a freak. I was so tired of feeling infantile that I just went for it, like ripping off a bandage. Went on a date and took him home.”

“Just with some random guy?”

“He had references; I did my research beforehand; it was all safe. The important thing what that I got all my first times over with so I didn’t have to worry about them anymore. Waiting for something perfect is awfully paralyzing.”

“Wow, that must have taken a lot of courage.”

“Partially delivered in liquid form,” Arthur confirms. “I also may have been motivated by a decade of sexual frustration, though.”

Eames laughs, deeply, from his belly.

“No, I had a classic awakening experience way back in school. Sloppy, awkward kisses progressed to hasty hand jobs exchanged in empty common rooms and dormitories, you know the way.”

“Unspeakable acts were performed behind the Quidditch fields after matches,” Arthur adds. Eames smacks his chest playfully.

“Sorry if it’s not _high school_ enough for you,” Eames says, enunciating the phrase in a perfect affectation of a valley-girl accent. Arthur snorts.

“Hmm, where were we?”

“Right here, I think.” Eames leans over and presses his lips to Arthur’s.

The next time they have to stop, Arthur groans. “Okay, I have a suggestion. You stay here. I’ll take my shower. We can both, um, take care of ourselves.”

“You always have the best ideas, Arthur.”

“Surprisingly enthusiastic for a man who’s essentially just been told to get to know his right hand,” Arthur quips as he gets to his feet and gathers the clothing he laid out the night before.

“My left is appalled at your implication that it wouldn’t get any play, darling,” Eames says, flashing him a wink.

Arthur rolls his eyes before starting for a second. “Don’t get come on the sheets.”

“I’m sorry, please remind me – between the two of us, who has come in this bed, again?”

Arthur flips him off – with two fingers, bless him, always trying to make Eames feel at home – as he heads off to the bathroom.

++

When they get back from work that evening, it’s pretty obvious to Arthur that it’s time to talk. Properly talk, this time, now that all declarations of affection (physical or otherwise) are out of the way.

“Okay, let’s talk,” he says, undoing his tie and top buttons, as soon as Eames has changed.

Eames starts, the first sign of discomfort he has displayed all day. Eames was oddly quiet at work, but every time that Arthur looked over at him, he was smiling softly.

Arthur kicks off his shoes and jumps on the bed, sitting cross-legged with the headboard at his side. He beckons for Eames to join him. He does, albeit apprehensively.

“I would like to date you,” Arthur begins.

“I’d like that, too.”

“I just think we should talk about boundaries. We don’t have to rush into anything. But I need you to tell me what you do and do not want.”

Eames takes a deep breath.

“I just don’t like to rush into sex, really,” he says. “I’m not saying I’m going to set some arbitrary amount of time, so I can’t tell you when to expect anything. I’m not just doing this to make you wait or anything like that, and there’s no number of dates I’ve deemed appropriate, and I’m not demanding a declaration of love or a ring or whatever. I just like the time to feel right, so it can mean a little more than just a grope motivated by little more than proximity and sexual frustration. And I like the anticipation a little bit, too, if I’m being honest. Does that sound silly?”

“No, it makes sense,” Arthur says, grasping Eames’s hand with his own. “I’m okay with that, but we’ll need to communicate for this to work. You’ll tell me if something makes you feel uncomfortable?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell you when I’m ready, Arthur; I can’t wait to be.”

Arthur smiles, giving Eames a little flash of dimples. “In the meantime, though,” he begins, somewhat inquisitively, but then stops, not wanting it to sound like he’s pressuring Eames to give him anything.

“I’m more than okay with kissing, but in a clothes-on, no wandering hands context,” Eames provides.

“Sounds good,” Arthur says. “But I have one request.”

Eames raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Go out with me tomorrow.”

“Oh, of course. Shall we dine at that fascinating establishment across the street?”

“Eames, for the last time, that moose painting is just decoration, not an example of their menu items.”

Eames huffs reluctantly. “You have no imagination, darling.”

“I don’t think you’ll be saying that tomorrow. I already have an idea in mind,” Arthur hints.

“I’m looking forward to it already,” Eames says, leaning forward to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hopefully this fic should be updated one every week or two :-)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eames gets a little embarrassed and then takes a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've never been ice skating? :D

“Okay, we’re here,” Arthur announces, shoving his phone back in his pocket and pulling his gloves back on. “Someone should really invent a way to access your GPS without freezing your fingers off,” he grumbles.

Eames stops. He doesn’t see any enclosed structures. “We’re here?” he asks, looking around skeptically.

“Yes,” Arthur says, gesturing to the rink next to them. “We’re going ice skating.”

Arthur looks very excited. Eames looks at the ice and feels terrified at the thought of making a fool of himself.

“Is there a nice bench where I could watch you ice skate while I drink hot chocolate? Or we could both go for hot chocolate. I promise it would be lovely. We could even slip a naughty shot of whiskey in. I’ve got some,” Eames says, patting his coat pocket fondly. Arthur looks at him like he genuinely doesn’t know whether or not he’s kidding.

“Are you cold? You should take my scarf,” he offers, moving to unwrap it from around his neck. It’s a terribly expensive looking gray thing that also matches his gloves, and it suits Arthur perfectly.

“No, I’m fine, darling. I just haven’t been ice skating since I was five, and I remember being extraordinarily bad at it,” Eames warns.

“That’s okay, Eames, I’m pretty rusty myself. Don’t worry about it.”

Eames is planning on protesting further, but then Arthur is at the rental counter asking for two pairs of skates. He briefly wonders how Arthur knows his size, before remembering that this is Arthur, after all, so he probably also knows Eames’s childhood home address, his grandmother’s fax number, and how many multiples of the recommended serving size of cereal he eats in the morning.

He accepts the skates wearily.

++

Arthur, it turns out, lied.

Eames accepts this as Arthur smoothly lands an honest-to-goodness jump while Eames watches him from his vantage point sprawled out on the surface of the rink.

_Arse, meet ice._

Eames stares in disbelief.

Arthur spots that Eames has fallen on the cool, smooth surface, turns around, and skates to a clean stop just beside Eames, offering out his hand. Eames takes it.

“Go up onto one knee,” he directs, “and push straight down with the other foot, hard, so it won’t slip.” Eames takes a deep breath and heaves himself up, partially. “Okay, good, now push down on your leg, and use me for balance, and just try to get up onto both feet.”

Eames does, getting both blades on the ground, and then, as soon as he releases Arthur’s hand, he immediately feels the ground going out from under him again. Luckily, Arthur is there this time to right Eames’s balance before he hits the ice again.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Eames says. Then, he falls again.

Arthur chuckles a bit before helping him up. Eames holds to him for dear life.

“Alright, I promise I won’t let go of your hand if you just keep moving your feet.” Arthur stands in front of Eames, holding his left hand while his right clings to the barrier around the rink in a death grip. Arthur starts to skate backwards slowly, because he can do that, and pulls Eames gently forward with him.

“That’s good, now try picking a foot up off the ice and then putting it down again,” he says. Eames has never seen Arthur be encouraging before. He’d be able to appreciate it more if he weren’t so embarrassed, but still, it’s nice.

Eames tries, picking up his right foot for approximately one-hundredth of a second, puts in back down, and stumbles forward dramatically towards Arthur, who doesn’t even seem fazed as he helps Eames regain his balance.

“That’s okay, just keep trying,” Arthur says. Eames does, very tentatively placing his boot back on the ice and managing to keep his footing. “That’s great, Eames!”

He tries it with his left this time. He stumbles a bit still, but it works.

“Okay, keep at it.”

For the first time since they’ve landed in Alaska, Eames is thankful for the cold weather, because the blush of embarrassment on his cheeks can be easily explained away. As long as he focuses on just pushing forward on each foot, alternately, it starts to get a bit easier. They make their way around the rink, and Arthur gives him praise and pieces of advice, although Eames doesn’t really hear them, because he thinks that if he pays attention to anything else, he’ll fall flat on his face.

And then Arthur lets go.

Within a second, he’s several meters away, still going backwards so he can watch Eames.

“Arthur, you promised!”

“You can do it, Eames, I believe in you,” Arthur shouts.

Eames tries to calm his breathing and continue that same motion. He’s a little shaky without Arthur, but he’s still on his feet.

“You’re doing great,” Arthur says, and like clockwork, Eames falls hard on his backside, flailing his arms wildly as he goes down.

“Oh,” Arthur says softly, and then skates back over to Eames to help him onto his feet. He helps him back towards the handrail along the border of the rink so Eames can get his wits about him again.

When he catches his breath, he says, “Arthur, you skate for a bit while I calm down a bit, okay? I’d love to watch you.”

He really means it, too. Arthur looks beautiful as he skates away. His movement is agile and elegant, and he moves swiftly around the rink. After he does a few laps around, he slows a bit to do a few spins, and then transitions to moving backwards for a little while. He looks lithe and lovely as he skates, with his hair, usually gelled into submission, delightfully wind-blown.

Eventually, he comes to a stop by Eames’s portion of the barrier.

“Are you feeling steady?”

“Right here, I am.”

“Brilliant, then I can do this,” Arthur says as he leans in to kiss Eames, soft and gentle and long. Eames positively melts into the kiss, Arthur’s lips warming his.

When they part, Arthur pulls Eames away from the wall. “Do you want to try a bit more?”

Eames nods.

He surrenders about twenty minutes later, having skated the entire length of the rink once on his own, fallen forward twice, and backwards three times. Arthur takes both his hands so they can skate around the rink one more time before they leave, Arthur skating backwards to guide Eames while he glides forwards.

Eames sighs audibly in relief when he collapses on the bench and frees his feet from their pointy prisons. Arthur retrieves their shoes and gives Eames a peck on the cheek before they make their way back to the hotel.

Halfway there, Arthur stops outside a convenience store and leads Eames inside. “Wait here,” he instructs, leaving Eames near the front by the newspapers. He returns a few minutes later with a plastic bag.

“What did you get?”

“It’s a surprise,” Arthur says calmly. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

++

As soon as they get back to the room, Arthur goes to fill the kettle at the bathroom sink.

“I could do with a cuppa; thank you,” Eames says.

“I can do you one better,” Arthur says, a smile gleaming on his face. He pulls at item out of the bag. “Hot chocolate.”

“You’re incredible, Arthur, have I told you that before?”

Arthur just keeps grinning back at him, flashing his dimples. A few minutes later, he’s presenting Eames with a steaming mug of it.

Eames produces his flask from his coat pocket and splashes in a measure. He offers it wordlessly to Arthur, who looks momentarily surprised before taking it and spiking his own drink.

They sit on the couch together, Arthur’s legs flung over Eames’s lap, and watch the news as they sip their hot chocolates. Eames turns off the television when the program switches to a never-ending stream of infomercials and stares into his empty mug, willing it to magically replenish itself.

“I should have asked if you could skate,” Arthur apologizes. “I just didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

His ears go a little pink, as if the embarrassment he feels at not having planned this perfectly trumps the number of times he saw Eames fall flat on his face.

“It’s okay. I had a good time with you regardless.” Eames isn’t lying. The way Arthur helped him was patient and caring without being patronizing. It was a side of Arthur he hadn’t seen before, and wasn’t that rather then point? “And I did enjoy immensely watching you skate. How could you think that was pretty rusty?”

“There was a pond that froze over every winter near the house where I grew up. We all used to skate all the time, but I was never as good as my sisters. You should see them, honestly.”

“Everyone else should see you. I had no idea you were just hiding talents like that.”

Arthur blushes a little. “Don’t exaggerate. Although if you have any secret skills you’d care to share, I’m free tomorrow night. Happy to do whatever you want, since I made you miserable tonight.”

“You didn’t make me miserable,” Eames promises. He’s betrayed by his own wince, though, as his bruised backside makes contact with the arm of the couch as he’s squirming around trying to get more comfortable.

“Oh, I forgot!” Arthur leaps up and runs into the bathroom. Eames can hear water running. “The second part of the surprise,” he calls out, as if this explains everything.

“Arthur?” Eames wanders over to find Arthur crouching next to the bathtub, testing the temperature of the water with his hand.

Arthur reaches back into the carrier bag and pulls out another item. “Bubble bath,” he says, looking up at Eames earnestly. “I thought you might be sore, and a hot bath always helps to relax me. And I thought bubbles might be soothing.”

Eames drops down onto his knees so he’s nearer to eye level with Arthur, grabs ahold of his chin, and pulls him forward to kiss him.

“Thank you, darling.”


	3. Chapter 3

Eames must admit, the bath helped. But he’s still very sore the next morning when he walks into work. Sore enough to walk funnily. Funnily enough for Ariadne, annoyingly observant as she is, to notice.

“Are you okay, Eames?” she asks, looking mildly concerned as she peers at Eames’s strained gait.

“He’s just a bit sore,” Arthur says. “We’ve been trying for a baby.”

Ariadne, Dom, and Eames all gape at him, Eames’s eyes the widest of them all.

“Because, you know, they’re a married couple?” Yusuf shouts from his corner.

“Thank you, Yusuf,” Arthur huffs. “I’ll be here all week.” He taps his pen a couple times against the side of his notebook.

Arthur sits down next to Eames at their lunch break. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t think before I quipped.”

“It’s okay. I was just surprised; that’s all,” Eames says, talking through a bite of sandwich.

“Charming.”

“You love it.” Eames licks aioli from the corners of his mouth.

++

“Okay, what are we doing tonight?” Arthur asks, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the floor of their room and then carefully laying the PASIV underneath it.

“I’ve come up with a bit of a wicked idea, Arthur.”

“Oh, so one date was all it took?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.

Eames laughs, blushing a little. “Not wicked like that. More delinquent. And while I am loath to ruin the surprise, darling, I should probably tell you what I have up my sleeve before you become complicit in it.”

Arthur crosses his arms, leans back against the wall, and smirks invitingly at Eames. “I do love a good plan.”

++

“This is so ridiculous,” Arthur says, grinning madly as he stands as lookout beside Eames, who is currently picking the lock to the back door of a local diner.

“Hush, you’re enjoying yourself,” Eames responds. “There’s a reason you chose a life of crime, after all.” He takes a second to focus and then the latch releases. “My years of training all laid bare for you now, Arthur.”

“Very impressive, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says as he pushes inside. He pulls the flashlight from his coat pocket and illuminates the kitchen. They had planned ahead for this – turning on all the lights in an establishment that closed two hours ago would clearly not be a good idea. Eames slips in behind him and closes the door.

Arthur sets down the bag of groceries on the large metal tabletop in front of him, and then lays down another flashlight so it illuminates the table.

“Okay, chef. What first?”

Eames pretends to contemplate the ingredients in front of him, as if he didn’t spend half an hour planning the meal while he told Cobb he was doing some research on his forge. “The steak,” he says. “Turn on the griddle, please.”

Arthur takes his own flashlight and peers at the controls while Eames darts into the main seating area of the restaurant. When he returns, he is carrying salt and pepper shakers.

“Resourceful.” Arthur reaches for the butter that sits on the counter and slaps a pad of it down on the hot griddle’s surface while Eames seasons the steaks. Soon, they’re sizzling away.

Meanwhile, Eames has turned his attention to chopping the mushrooms and shallots they bought, depositing them in a saucepan. He’s made this before on plenty of occasions. Cook them with garlic and butter, throw in some spinach, spike with some balsamic vinegar, and add a touch of cream near the end. Works every time.

“That smells good,” Arthur remarks absentmindedly as he washes up what they’ve used so far. He pauses and frowns. “Wait, did we bring the butter? I don’t remember buying it.”

“No, I think it was just sitting there. What should we do?”

Arthur digs around in his pocket until he finds a couple appropriate bills, and then crams them into the tip jar.

“Excellent solution.” Eames turns back to his pan, shaking it around so as to stir it somehow without any sort of utensil.

“You may have missed your calling as a line cook, Eames. I can imagine you working at a place like this.”

“No, you’ve got me all wrong,” Eames jests. “I would be a private chef. Employed by the rich until I’d earned enough to live my own life of luxury.” He drags a finger through the sauce forming in the pan and sucks it into his mouth, letting his eyes flutter shut as the flavors danced around on his tongue.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t steal from your employers to get rich all the more quickly.”

“Well, we did say my employers were rather wealthy. Surely they could withstand the hit.”

“You’re a regular Robin Hood, Eames.” Arthur turns his attention to the steaks, talking as he does so. “I think these might be done. Unless, of course, you’re some kind of animal who thinks a steak should be served above medium.”

“I didn’t know animals cooked their meat at all, darling.”

“Oh shut up, you knew what I meant. But anyway, I think these might be done, but if you want to check yours, do it now – christ, Eames, could you stop fellating that spoon?”

Arthur is looking up now – staring, actually – with wide eyes at Eames, who releases the the thing from his mouth with a lewd pop. Arthur continues to gape at him.

“Sorry, Arthur, a bit of a tease by nature, I suppose. Very useful in my field of work.”

Arthur groans. “Your marks stand no chance.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You should see me with a churro.”

Arthur throws a dishtowel at him.

++

The meal actually turns out fairly well, to Eames’s eternal relief. He reaches for another piece of the crusty bread he bought while Arthur tells him about the kinds of food he learned to cook from his family. Eames still can’t quite picture a piece of rugelach, but he knows he wants to eat one.

“This was actually a good idea, Eames,” Arthur says as they wash up the dishes from their meal. “Never had dinner lit by a flashlight before, but it’s not a bad ambiance.”

“I’m surprised that Cosmo doesn’t have an article about it yet. You could write one, darling.”

“Nineteen sexy ways to spice up that power outage?”

“Nineteen? Pray tell, what are the others?”

Arthur makes eye contact and then drags his tongue across his teeth – if Eames can tease, why can’t he?

“I see.”

They work quickly to put now-clean dishes and pans back where they found them. Arthur scrubs down the countertop and then turns to face Eames. “Are we done here?”

“I may have forgotten something,” Eames says, heading back out to the main area of the diner. Arthur watches him as he stops dead in his tracks. “Fuck, someone’s coming!” He shouts, his voice rising in panic.

It’s not real panic. Arthur knows what Eames is actually like in an emergency, and it’s not frantic. He’s collected. He’s creative. He’s ruthless.

He’s – well. He’s hot.

Arthur looks out the window. “There is literally no one there,” he deadpans.

“Arthur, be quiet, they could hear us!” Eames says in a stage whisper. He runs back around the counter and grabs Arthur’s hand, pulling him into the pantry and slamming the door shut before assaulting Arthur’s lips with his mouth.

“There’s no need for pretense,” Arthur says breathlessly when he eventually breaks away from the kiss. “You’re allowed to just kiss me.”

“Ah, but doesn’t this make it more fun, darling?”

Arthur leans his head back against the door while Eames kisses his neck. “I can hardly wait to be with you,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful, Arthur.” He licks his way back into Arthur’s mouth.

“You too,” Arthur moans, tugging at Eames’s shirt to pull him closer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the author's dedication to verisimilitude - she actually went to Color Me Mine with a friend to do research for this chapter. The snail is real, and it is adorable.

“Okay, you’ve genuinely surprised me with this one.”

“There’s not a lot in this town,” Arthur says, a bit defensively.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it; I’m just surprised that you picked it,” Eames remarks, picking up and examining ceramic margarita glasses and coffee mugs from the shelves on the walls. “You never struck me as a ‘Color Me Mine’ type of guy, that’s all. What are you thinking of painting?”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur says, looking at a ceramic snail – which seemed to have an extra pair of eyes in addition to its stalks – and frowning. “I can’t decide whether or not to go for practicality or whimsy.”

Eames can’t imagine Arthur owning something for whimsy’s sake, or, at least, carrying something like that around on a job. He’s not here to police Arthur’s personality, though. God forbid he mock him about it and Arthur withhold some hidden part of himself for fear of judgment. Eames knows just how paralyzing expectations can be sometimes.

“How about you?” Arthur asks, turning to Eames.

“Dancing teapot,” Eames responds nonchalantly.

“Huh?” Arthur pokes his head out from the cabinet he’s searching in.

Eames holds up the teapot, which is curved so it looks like it’s bent at the waist, to show Arthur. Arthur turns his head to the side. “Okay, I see it,” he relents. “I think I’m just going to do a mug.”

“Practicality, then? Sure you don’t need a,” Eames grabs a random item off the shelf, “…an elephant?”

“Fairly certain, yes,” Arthur says, smiling.

While Arthur picks a table for the two of them, Eames focuses on bringing back every color of paint they have in the store.

“What.” Arthur stares at Eames as he brought back tube after tube of paint.

“If we limit ourselves to just a few colors, we can’t be truly spontaneous,” Eames clarifies. “Don’t plan, just paint.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur says. He stares at his mug for a while, turning it over and over in his hand, clearly trying to decide what to do.

Eames leans over and paints a bright stripe of lime green across Arthur’s mug.

“Hey!” Arthur shouts.

“You were planning; I could tell,” Eames says. “You can’t now, so just paint whatever strikes your fancy at this exact moment. Don’t worry about what it will look at at the end. It’ll look beautiful.”

“That’s the corniest thing I’ve ever heard,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “I think it’ll look like a five year old with poor motor control skills painted it.”

“We’ll see,” Eames smiles.

“I’m going to turn this stupid line into a leaf,” he pronounces, getting a pencil and starting to sketch on the mug.

They paint for a little while in silence before Eames works up the nerve to finally ask Arthur about his friendship with Cobb. He’s always been curious about it, but it also always felt like something private, some unspoken loyalty that wasn’t necessarily his business. Luckily, the question doesn’t seem to faze Arthur. He launches into a story about how Cobb hired him out of college – how he honest to goodness _found_ him in the architecture library, where he was clearly peeking at drawings and designs until he found what he was looking for in all of Arthur’s precision. And, as Eames had always suspected, but never really wanted to think about, it was Mal who was Arthur’s closer friend. Arthur seems okay when he talks about it, and the way he stayed by Dom’s side as a sense of duty, but his sentences are shorter, more clipped.

And then, all of a sudden, Arthur stops talking, drops his paintbrush, stares at his mug, and plants his face down on the table, his body shaking a little. Eames, for a moment, isn’t sure if he’s laughing or crying, but it becomes clear a second later.

“Oh my god, look at this,” Arthur says between peals of laughter, holding up his mug for Eames to see.

Eames looks over. Arthur’s mug has turned into a bit of a monstrosity. He’s clearly tried for polka dots but failed, leaving him with vaguely rounded square lumps all over the mug in an honestly horrific combination of colors, even according to Eames, whom Arthur has once described as having the ‘rod-and-cone-development of a fetal rabbit.’ It’s nothing that Eames could have ever imagined Arthur making.

“It’s possible you were right about the five year old thing,” he says, starting to giggle. “Is that the leaf? It looks a bit more like a bell pepper.”

“This happens every time I try to do something creative,” Arthur groans. “I have such a perfect vision and then it turns into a complete mess.”

“Frankly, darling, it’s actually endearing to me that you’re bad at something,” Eames says, rubbing Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s adorable. Makes you more human.”

Arthur tries for a glare, but doesn’t really succeed, because he catches a glance of the mug again and starts laughing.

“You should sign your work, for posterity,” Eames suggests, grinning.

“Okay,” Arthur says, then grabs the thinnest paintbrush he can find and gets to work. When he’s finished, he shows it off proudly – the bottom of the mug is adorned with just the name ‘Eames’ in a chicken-scratch that is horrifyingly recognizable to Eames as his true handwriting.

“Oh my god,” Eames says.

“What? You’re not the only one that can forge, at least topside,” Arthur teases. He looks over at Eames’s teapot. Of course, it is somehow a beautiful mess, as opposed to Arthur’s ugly one. The haphazardly placed rainbow of stripes seems to accentuate the way the pot is curved, as if the pot really is dancing. Arthur doesn't say anything, would claim not to want to inflate Eames’s ego, but it’s clear from the way he’s beaming that he’s already seen Arthur’s impressed face.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “It has character.”

Eames contemplates it for a moment. “Well, I’m proud to be the creator of what’s clearly the world’s first gay teapot.”

“Oh? Is it not going to be interested in my mug, then?” Arthur asks before burying his face in his hands and groaning. “Oh, god, I can’t believe I just said that. You’ve rubbed off on me.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says, smiling mischievously and raising one eyebrow, “I seem to remember it was the other way around.”

Arthur dabs a fleck of purple paint on Eames’s face, but smiles anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And, you know, sorry for the several month delay between chapters. School.


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